University of South Carolina Libraries
_ J ??? ? ?? lewis m. grist, proprietor, j Jtobepenbtnt Jfamily Uetosjjajier Jfor % ^ramotioit of f|t political, fecial, ^griniltaral anb dammettial Interests of t|e S?ont|. Jterms--$2.50 a year, in advance. VOL. 28. YORKYILLE, S. C., THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1882. ISTO. 7. Jtlertcd f0etr|. BOVS' RIGHTS. I wonder now if anyone In this broad land has heard In fyvor of down trodden boys One solitary word ? * We hear enough of "woman's rights," And "rights of working men," Of "equal rights" and "nation's rights," , But pray just tell us when Boys' rights were ever spoken of ? Why we've become so used To being snubbed by every one, And alighted and abused, That when one is polite to us, We open wide our eyes, And stretch them in astonishment To nearly twice their size! Boys seldom dare to ask their friends To venture in the house ; It don't come natural at all To creep round like a mouse, And if we should forget ourselves And make a little noise, Then ma or auntie snre would say, "Oh, my! those dreadful boys!" The girls bang on the piano In peace, but if the boys Attempt a tune with fife and clrum, It's "stop that horrid noise 1" I "That horrid noise," just think of it; When sister never fails To make a noise three times a* bad With everlasting "scales." Insulted thus, we lose no time In beating a retreat; So off we go to romp and tear, And scamper in the street. No wonder that so many bovs Such wicked men become. 'Twere better far to let them have Their games and plays at ho me. Perhaps that text the teacher quotes Sometimes?"Train up a child"? Means only train the little girls, And let the boys run wild. But patience, and the time shall come When we will all be men, And when it does, I rather think Wrongs will be righted then. Jtt Original ftotg. Written for the Yorkville Enquirer. THE HOUSE ON TEE HILL. BY HERBERT JOHNSON. CHAPTER VIII. ' Mr. Erskine, after a little more talk with Hardy, concerning the information he had received, hastened on towards his own house, full of troubled thoughts. He deeply regretted his absence, at a time when this fresh disaster, coming upon the Mays, would seem to have made the presence of a near and reliable friend' especially grateful to them. He pictured to himself poor, overburdened Sophy, and her frail, helpless mother, crushed by their accumulated sorrows, with no sustaining hand to help them bear the burden ; and blamed himself for the selfish regard for his own feelings; though, indeed, his conduct had. been prompted by admirable motives, which had taken him from their side. He scarcely waited to disbur* - 1,fl -r om^ninfmonfc uen inmseii ui uia iiotciuig i>prvmvu.vu.u, and take a little refreshment, before hurrying to see them, in order to acquaint them with his return and find out in what way he could serve them best. He reached the house. It looked solitary, with the front windows closed and the vines trailing over the porch, and the little flowergarden in front, wore a neglected air. He knocked at the door. There was no response, but opening it gently, he walked in. Everything looked as usual in the sitting-room. The chintz-covered sofa, wheeled near the fireplace?for the days were growing chilly now? the books neatly arranged on their shelves, Sophy's work-stand, and 011 the table a bit of unfinished work lying, as if it had been hastily thrown there and left. He sat down in a low chair by the table and waited patiently. In a few moments, a light step was heard in the hall; the door opened, and Sophy came in. He saw, at a glance, that slie was looking ill. Her face was thinner than it had been when he left her, and absolutely devoid of color, and 01T03 fa!^ Af cloan. Lilt? UcliK unuica aiuunu nci tjvo tviu V4 less nights and many tears. She started slightly as she perceived him, and a faint flush rose, for an iftstant, to her cheek; then her eyes drooped, as if she were afraid to meet his glance. "I did not know you had returned," she said, in a low, spiritless tone, as he took her proffered hand. "I am but just come. How is your mother ??how are you both ?" "I am well, thank you. Mamma is feeling a little stronger than usual to-day. But her health does not improve." "I was sorry to hear, as I came through the village, that she was still so far from well. I met old Hardy, and he spoke to me about you." "He told you, then, I suppose, of our recent loss ?" "Yes?I am deeply grieved to hear of it." "It does not seem to make much difference. Nothing can make our life sadder than it has been for a long while past," she said, in a dreary tone. "Only the dread of what it may entail upon us, haunts mamma continually, and is bad for her. For myself, I don't care." There was a silence. Her subdued, listless air, the weary indifference of look and tone, the drooping attitude that showed how entirely the old, cheerful light-heartednoss had been crushed out of her, touched him more painfully than any violent display of emotion would have done. He watched her as she sat before him, her hands lying idly in her lap, her fair young face, with its tears of sorrow, bent down, her heavy eyes resting on the floor, and his heart ached with an inexpressible yearning to comfort Iter, to gather her into its shelter/?nfo av?A V\ir1 iroon nn mAro Tf wfLQ 11J? taic OilU M1U UV4 ?l VV|/ MV JIUV1.V! m.%, .. ?.W liard to feel that he had abundance, prosperity, the rich store?of an overflowing love to offer her, and yet dared not speak the words that would place them at her command. "You spoke just now," he presently said, "of the consequences your losses might entail upon your mother and yourself. May I venture to ask what you meant ?" "Yes. I don't mind telling you anything. Yon are such a good friend to us, and always seem to be able to give advice. Indeed, I meant to consult you on this very matter," she replied, rousing herself from her abstraction, and, for the first time, meeting his glance. "You know, of course, now, that we can't keep on living as we have done." "IIow ?" he asked. "We have no longer any income, and though our excuses here are small, we cannot keep up, even this plain establishment, without some settled means. Mamma, I know, has a little railroad stock, which she is willing to sell, but I think she ought not to. It will be something for her to depend upon, in any unforeseen emergency ; and at the best, the money she would receive for it would only hold out for a few months, and then we would be as badly off as ever. Now, you know there is nothing to prevent my working. I couldn't earn much, I am afraid, by sewing; but I can teach. Papa gave me a very careful education, and I dare say, I know as much as most governesses. > At any rate, I could teach little children; though, perhaps, I would get too trifling a.salary to make that of any use. What do you think ?" "I think," he said, finding it difficult to speak calmly, "that it would be a pity for you to do anything so rash as leaving home. The life of a governess is a dreary one at best; and besides, how could your mother be left alone ?" "That last j oint is the only difficulty," she replied. "I would make arrangements, of course, to leave her in suitable care. We have many friends in the village?humble ones it's true, but faithful and kind?and among them I could find one who would be willing to stay here and take as good care, probably, of mamma as I can. And perhaps I could get a situation not very far off?in Chatham, for instance. Then I could come home quite often, perhaps even once a week." Mr. Erskine rose from his chair, and took a few restless turns up and down the room. "It seems to me altogether impracticable," he said, without stopping in his walk. "In fact, I do not see how you could arrange it at all." "You mean that I ought not to leave mamma ?." "Certainly?that is one reason. I am sure she could not spare you. ?ier neaun wouiu suffer, and so, doubtless, would yours. You could not endure the life." "I! Oh, I am very strong. I am never ill; and there would be no hardship in such a life." "My child, you can't tell. You do not know. I could not bear to see you thrust out into the world?" his voice grew husky ; he paused an instant, controlled himself, and went on more quietly: "Governesses have a harder time than you are aware of. Do you think that the trifling sum you could earn at such an employment would compensate to your suffering mother, for the idea of her child being exposed to contact with selfish, uncongenial natures, perhaps to unkindness, even impertinence; above all, compensate for the separation, which would be so severe a trial to her ?" She looked at him wistfully. "Do you think, then, I would earn so little ?" she asked. "Governesses seldom make fortunes," hereplied. "Xo, but without making a fortune, could I not at least make enough to keep mamma comfortable ?" "You might, possibly ; but at what a cost!" "Do you think my going away?provided I could manage to see her pretty often?would really be bad for her ?" "Can I doubt it ? Are you not her only comfort?her only companion ? "Would the society of any one else make amends for the loss of ycurs ? I am sure not. In her frail condition, any additional cause of anxiety or depression would certainly be most disadvantageous to her." "Then I don't see what I can do," said Sophy, despondently. "It is not likely I would get scholars to come to me, I suppose." "Give up the idea of teaching, altogether. It would be a most unfruitful occupation." "But I cannot think of anything else." "Do not think about it at all. There is no necessity for you to be in such haste to make new arrangements. Let everything go on without change ior the present." "But, Mr. Erskine, it is impossible that things should go on without change. What are we to live on ?" A sudden inspiration struck him. "Come and live with me, you two," he exclaimed, turning an eager face towards her. "Be my guests, for this winter at any rate. It would be such a happiness to me. Consider how lonely I am ; consider what a benefit?" "The benefit would be all on our side, no doubt," interrupted Sophy, with a faint smile. "But Mr. Erskine, don't propose such a thing ; it would be impossible." "Why impossible, may I ask ?" "Oh, because I'm sure mamma wouldn't consent." "I see no reason why she should refuse. At all events, I mean to ask her. Consider," and his voice took a most persuasive tone, as he came to her side and sat down ; "Consider how easy, how natural, an arrangement it would be." "It is always easy and natural for you to be kind," said Sophy, in whose eyes tears were now trembling. "You have already done enough favors for us to prove that." "Mighty favors, truly! And pray, who showed me kindness, when I was shipwrecked, and forlorn, cast insensible on a strange shore? Who nursed me through sickness, and made me well, and took me unquestioningly into their hearts, as well as their home ? Can I ever, think you, repay such generous treatment ?" "You have more than repaid it already." "Xo, indeed, and I never expect to be able to. But at least, in conferring such benefits upon me, you gave me the right to expect to be allowed to serve you a little, when occasion should require. My house, and all that it contains, I therefore wish to place now at your disposal. You well know that your presence there could only afford me joy; and you would have leisure to decide, soberly and without undue haste, upon your future mode of life. Come, Miss Sophy, do not be unreasonable. I am quite sure it is the best thing that you could do." "I am quite sure that you are the best friend I have," she said, gratefully. "Will you think of it V Will you speak to Mrs. May ?" "I?don't know. Mr. Erskine, another plan occurs to me. We might take boarders." He shook his head. "Boarders are much trouble and littleprofit. They would interfere with your domestic comfort; besides, they would be hard to get. Don't worry your head with any more plans. Agree to my proposal, and then I promise to help you find occupation, if you continue bent upon the scheme." At this moment, Mrs. May, looking worn and weak, and wrapped in a large shawl, came slowly in. "I thought I heard your voice," she said to Mr. Erskine, who hastened to meet her, while Sophy arranged a cushion for her on the sofa, in. tn wplr-nmp vnn linniP. Tt is a sad welcome, however, that any of us here can give you just now." Sophy, after helping her to place herself comfortably in her usual seat-, quietly withdrew from the room. She felt that she could not bear at that time to enter into any farther discussion of their plans. "Mrs. May," said Mr. Erskine, thinking it best to speak in a cheerful tone, "I have just been proposing a plan to your daughter, in which I hope to obtain your concurrence." And he went on to lay before her the scheme lie had been discussing, using every argument in its favor that he could command. "You are indeed most kind," she replied, when she had listened to him. "But I feel that I could not make up my mind to leave this house. It is endeared to me by so many ties?is so completely associated with my every memory of the past?that I desire to end my days here. And they are numbered, Mr. Erskine. I doubt if I can live until Spring." "Surely you exaggerate the danger of your condition," he answered, shocked to jierceive, in her despondent tone, how heavily the knowledge of her state weighed upon her. "No, I do not. lain undoubtedly failing. My health has rapidly declined of late. See here, how I am wasting," and she held up her thin, transparent hand. "I am sure it is a question of a few months only, for the most. My poor Sophy does not know this, and it seems almost cruel to open her eyes to the truth. Oh, my friend, it wrings my heart to look at that child, to consider what her sufferings are, what her future may be. Bereft of parents, lover, of earthly support, what is to become of her ?" Mr. Erskine was greatly moved. "Do not fear," he gently said, "that she can ever want for a friend while I live." "You are indeed a friend, and one on whom I can rely. But it will be necessary for her to go away somewhere to earn a living ; only, while I live, I do not wish her to leave me. I could not bear to be parted from her. She is full of such schemes ; and it is hard for me to oppose them without giving her a suffi cient reason?the only reason that I shrink from disclosing to her as yet. She is already weighed down by her troubles, and I feel that I cannot add anything to them, until I am forced to do so." Mr. Erskine leaned his head uj>on his hand, and mused for a little while in silence. A thought had occurred to him. Why should he not take Mrs. May into his confidence, and frankly declare his sentiments respecting Sophy '? From her he might gather some encourment to hope that, in the future, his wish might be fulfilled ; at least, knowing all that his heart contained, she might the more willingly accord him the privilege of making her child's welfare his object, and becoming the guardian of her interests. "Mrs. May," he said at last, looking up and fixing his eyes gravely and earnestly upon her, "have I your permission to introduce a very delicate and difficult subject to your noticeone which, under any other but existing circumstances, I should not venture at this time to touch upon ?" "You have my permission," she replied, "to speak freely of whatever is in your mind." "Well, then, let me confess to you that I love Sophy?that I have loved her, albeit without hope, from the first moment, almost, that I knew her, Do you despise me for the confession V" "Despise you? No?why should I? But I am amazed?startled beyond measure, to hear this." She sat upright and looked at him with questioning, troubled eyes. "I did not mean to startle you. But this secret has weighed upon me so long?has oppressed me so long almost with the sense of a crime?that it is a relief to me to tell it to you. God knows I meant no one any wrong. My weakness was involuntary. I have striven against it, but in vain." He ceased; a long, heavy sigh struggled half unconsciously from his breast, as if indeed he had relieved himself of an oppressive load. Mrs. May put .her handkerchief to her eyes, and presently he saw one or two large tears slowly steal from beneath it. "My dear, dear friend," he said, touching her hand with his, "I ask your forgiveness, a thousand times, for causing you this pain. It was selfish in me. I should have refrained?" "No, no. You have done nothing selfish? nothing wrong. Mr. Erskine, if I?if all of us had known this long ago !" "What difference would it have made ?" he asked. "That is true; and yet? Oh 1 my friend, believe me there is no man living?were things different from what they are?to whom I would more willingly entrust my child's welfare than yourself." "But, things being as they are, you think the idea utterly preposterous V" he asked, with outward calmness, but trembling in his anxiety to hear her reply. "God knows. Eor the present, certainly, it would be vain to hint to Sophy of such a thing." "As long as?as there was a prospect of former arrangements being carried out," he continued, "I resolved never by the faintest sign, the slightest word, to betray my own feelings in any degree. I meant that my secret should stay, as it had stayed so long, completely and forever shrouded in my breast. And God is my witness that I should never have allowed it to influence me selfishly, to mar the happiness of those two. I might even perhaps have lived down my infatuation, in the course of years; conquered it sufficiently to be able to look on tbe spectacle of their mutual devotion without pain. Now I feel that it is no longer criminal in me, though perhaps it is entirely useless, to indulge this love, and I cannot but yield myself up to it. It grows upon me day by day, with a force which I cannot oppose. Mrs. May, if ever your child's heart recovers from the loss of its early love sufficiently to turn kindly towards another, can I dare to hope that with the disparity of years, of disposition between us, she will consider me worthy to fill that place which Death has left vacant in her affections V" Mrs. May pressed his hand. 'T cannot bid you hope," she said. "I can only say that I desire no better future for my child. It is no disparagement to the one whom, living, I loved as my son, to say that since he is gone, there is none better qualified than yourself to fill his place. Hut for the present, this must be a question only between us two." CHAPTER IX. Mr. Erskine felt that he had not gained much by his disclosure, except, indeed, the consciousness that his secret was known, and not disapproved of, by at least one friend. lie did not see Mrs. May again, after this first visit, for a considerable time. Sophy he saw daily, but she was generally silent, and always sad, and it did not seem possible to do anything to cheer her. Not a word had as yet passed between them in regard to poor Harry's fate, until one evening, nearly six weeks after Mr. Erskine's return, when they were sitting together in the parlor, Mrs. May having gone early to bed. There had been a long silence. Sophy, sitting in the listless attitude which had become habitual to her. gazing with a far-away look into the fire, and Mr. Erskine, from the opposite side of the fire-place, intently watching her face, with Heaven knows what vain hopes and fancies crowding his brain. At last with a long sigh she roused herself from her abstraction, and spoke. ; "Mr. Erskine," she said, "don't you think that trouble makes }>eople grow old very fast V" "It is apt to make one feel so at any rate," he replied. "I feel years and years older than I did a few months ago," she went on. "I never would have believed it possible that a comparatively short time could have made such a change. Why, when papa was alive, he never looked upon me as fit to have any responsibility, or care. He thought me a child, and laughed when I gave an opinion about anything. And now I have to think of so much ! Mr. Erskine, tell me truly, how does mamma's case strike you ? Does she seem tc j you to improve ?" ' "I have not noticed mucli difference in her, since my return," he answered, evasively. "Haven't you V I have fancied, sometimes, that she was growing a little stronger; but then she seems to fall back again. I can't get the doctor to tell me anything. Has he ever spoken to you about her." "Once or twice, he has." "And what did he tell you ?" "He never gave any decided opinion." "Truly ?" "Yes, truly. Doctors seldom do, you know. What does she think about herself." "It is hard for me to find out. Sometimes, she appears very despondent. Mr. Erskine, do you, too, think she is going to die ?" Her voice died into a whisper as she asked the question ; but she looked full at him, with tearless eyes. "How can I answer you ?" he replied, distressed at being urged so far. She certainly looks ill; any one must see that. She is very thin and very weak ; but I have known others to recover, who seemed to be as much reduced in strength. Probably her mind has much to do with her physical state. If her cheerfulness could be restored, it might go far toward making her well again." "Do you think seS*. But that cannot be; and yet?" she paused. "I wonder if I am not terribly selfish," she presently went on. "I never try to cheer her in any way. Perhaps I am accountable for some of her depression. But what can I do ? I am so very, very, wretched, it would be utterly useless for me to attempt to seem otherwise." Mr. Erskine was silent. Indeed, he found it difficult to know what to say. "Sometimesshe continued," I have reproached myself for dwelling so continualfy on my own feelings. Once or twice I have taken a book and read to mamma a little, but I don't think she cared a great deal about it, and when I got through I had a feeling as if I had been carrying on a sort of mockery that did neither of us any good. And sometimes I think if I could talk a little to any one, about?about things?I would feel better than keeping them shut up always in my own heart. But I can't. It would only make mamma feel more unhappy; and besides, when I begin to try, the words die away before I can speak them. I dare not go on." "I am not sure that it would do her harm. I think it is always worse to brood over things in silence than to speak of them when one is sure of sympathy," said Mr. Erskine. "But it takes so little to agitate her; and agitation does her harm, always. I never even mention papa's name; though sometimes I feel that such constraint is dreadful. As to my own trouble, I know that that is somethinc aoart. I can't burden her with it; she is weighed down already." "But does she not make it her own, as well everything else ? Your silence does not make her feel it less. Don't you suppose it is always on her mind ?" "No?at any rate, I hope it is not. Poor mamma! it would be too much for her. At any rate, it is what no one can help me bear; because, of course, no one can feel about it as .1 do. It is not even as if?as if he and I had been comparative strangers; as if our fondness for one another had been a recent thing. We had known each other so long?almost all our lives. We had played together day by day, as little children. We knew each other's thought* and wishes and ideas. I don't remember a time when our plans for the future were not identical. No one?not even my father and mother?imagined, until within the last two years, that we cared as we did. I don't think he was more than sixteen when he first told me what he hoped I would be to him." She had spoken in a low tone, but rapidly, as if the words came spontaneously from her lips. It was no doubt a relief to her to talk of what had so long been pent up within her heart. She did not even look at her listener, U..4- .nn+ nn i>otlior Qa if oV>0 WOVP ITlfl 111 fritl V in I ULI t W CHI UU 1 (VV1 tV/1 ivo it wuv/ II Vkv a retrospect, unheard. "I have heard people jest about first love ; but I think, from what I know of it, that there can be none other better or truer. It seems to me that I could not have borne to think of his ever having cared for another person, before me. I knew I was the very first, the first and only one ; and he was the only one, for me; of course that made us care all the more. He always told me all his plans, even before he spoke of them to his uncle. We never disagreed about anything? never ; not even when we were children. Hut that was because he was so unselfish. He always thought of my pleasure first. He was not rough or tyrannical, like most boys. And he was so truthful, so noble ; he would never descend to the smallest deceit. It was no wonder I felt as I did about him. When he was going away, I had a presentiment that I would not see him ragain. I couldn't shake it off. He was so hopeful, so enthusiastic about his profession, so certain he would succeed, so full of plans for our future ? You knew? did you not?that we were to have been married this Fall ?" she added, for the first time addressing herself directly to Mr. Erskine since she had alluded to the subject of her loss. "Yes?so I heard," he replied, quietly. "That was his wish?and I suppose it would fViniirvVi rvmo'c /loafh miffllf. hilVfi lirtVC uruil J O UVKVU .N.T w made some difference; I can't tell. If we had had no trouble, I was to have pone with him on his next voyage. He looked forward to have me go with him everywhere. But oh 1 what is the use of my talking or thinking about all this now 1" she cried suddenly sinking back in her chair with a despairing movement. "It is over?over and gone forever. All my dreams?my beautiful dreams?my bright hopes?.ire dead and gone. If it were not for my mother, I should pray that I might go too. If 1 lose her, I hope I will?I hope I will!" "My child, don't speak so ; it is wrong. You do not mean it," he said, with emotion. "But I do mean it. I suppose it is wrong. It is wicked, perhaps, to murmur and rebel ; and I do rebel all the time. No one thinks so, but I know my own heart. I feel that God has been very, very cruel. He built up fair, bright hopes in me, and gave me the promise of so much happiness, just to dash it to the ground. My life, that I thought was going to be sweet, is all a blank and a waste. What have I got to live for V" "You do not know what God may have in store for you V" "He can have nothing in store forme which can in any way make amends for what He hat destroyed and taken away." "You are very young. Your whole lift nearly lies beforeyou." "Don't say that?it kills me to think of it I am not .much more than twenty ; suppose 1 live to be three-score and ten?what a dreary dark, interminable time, those fifty years wil be. Oh ! I should like to go into a consump tion, or something, and die without having auj more troubles and losses. I hope I may." "My child," he said, very gravely, "you don'l i know what you say. Pray God He may noi ; take you at your word." > "I can't pray. All my faith seems to hav< given way ; it has nothing to hold by. Once , daily, practical religion seemed an easy thing I could not imagine any one being without it , But I fear mine was very shallow. Notliini ; of it remains." "You think so now, because you are walking in dark places. God has allowed the night to encompass you, and you fiud yourself bewildered and gone astray. But after a time, the light will return; then everything will seem clear and plain." She shook her head. "It may be so, but I am worse than you think me. I am frightened when I look into my own heart. I am so changed. It isn't only the outward change, or that I am dull and melancholy; that is not the worst. I can find no comfort in anything." "Can't you find it in God's own word ? Read the Bible, and see what He says." "I try to read it, but the words have 110 meaning forme." Mr. Erskine was silent for a little while. At last, he said, in a deeply moved tone? "My child, I am not a fit person to talk to you about these things. I am only a learner myself, not a teacher, in the school of religion. * ' -L : T 4-r*. it is duc a year or two suite x mat ucgnu turn my attention to serious subjects. But if you feel as you say you do, you should unburden your heart to your mother. She will know how to guide, how to counsel you. You are only increasing the evil by shutting it up and brooding over it in secret. Take my advice, and tell her all your difficulties. I used always to find, when I was perplexed or worried, tliat my mother could help me better than any one else." "Mamma would be so shocked ! She is so good herself, such a perfect Christian, that she would not understand my being so wicked." "The most perfect Christians, I have heard, are always the most ready to make allowances for the frailty of others. At all events, try my plan. Your mother may be shocked, but not in the sense yoa mean. It will be a grief to her to discover how far your sorrow has led you ; but it will be her comfort and delight to find herself instrumental in leading you back again to pleasant, peaceful paths. You do both yourself and her an injustice, in keeping up this chilling reserve. Open, unrestrained confidence will be better, as well as more natural, for you both." Sophy made no answer. She seemed disinclined to talk any more. After sitting a little longer, he bade her good-night, and ivent away. His heart ached sorely to comfort her; but he did not know how. However, his advice had not been given quite in vain. She thought it over, and though she did not act immediately upon it, it had, in due time, its j effect. She had sometimes felt a painful, oppressive sense of the reserve which, in spite of all her love for her mother, had built up a Sort of barrier between them, ever since she had accepted the certainty of her loss; and the fault, undoubtedly, was her own. She had regarded her trouble as too exclusively hers ; had hugged it to herself, and jealously shut out others from participating in it. Now she began to see that she was wrong. Her mother, overborne, as she was, by grief for her father's death, would nevertheless have shared her burden willingly, if she had not voluntarily withheld herself from her sympathy. There had been a time when there was no reserve, no concealment between the two. Mrs. May, still youthful in her feelings, had always been a companion, as well as guide, for her daughter, and when Sophy haid passed out of her childhood, they were almost like sisters, rather than parent and child. But those were in happy days. Sophy had known nothing of sorrow before her father's death. Her very being was changed now. She had truly said that when she searched her own heart, she did not know herself. Affliction was a new, strange experience. It dismayed and bewildered her. She could not bring herself, as it were, to betray to any one the aspect it wore to her, but brooded and brooded upon it with a secret, silent j persistency that made it tenfold worse. She found it difficult to pray. The religious exercises which she had once delighted in had lost all pleasure, all meaning for her; and finding this to be the case, she accused herself of a degree of sinfulness of which she was really not guilty. Her error lay in yielding passively to the difficulties which beset her, instead of trying to find a way out of them. The night after the conversation with Mr. Erskine, she pondered a good deal on this question ; and it continued from that time, to recur frequently to her mind. At last, one day, quite suddenly, the impulse seized her, when she was with her mother, to open her heart to the latter ; and the ice once broken, she only marvelled that she had lacked the courage to speak before. Mrs. May took her into her arms, and spoke in a way that made it easy to follow up her first confidence with others. With the unselfishness of mother-love, she threw himself, for the time being, wholly into her child's doubts, and sorrows, and dismay, putting aside all of her own that she might better act the part of comforter. "Whv did you not come to me before, my darling ?" she asked. "I could not, mamma. Something kept the words shut up in me, though J wanted to say them. And I thought you had enough trouble of your own." "I have felt that there was something wrong," Mrs. May continued. "I saw that it was not mere grief?such a natural, irrepressible grief as you ought to feel?that was weighing you down. But it seemed to me that I could not give advice unasked, or seek to draw from you a confession of what you preferred to keep secret. Perhaps I have been wrong in leaving you thus to yourself ; but I thought my child was changed, and d id not want my sympathy any more." The hard, stony surface penetrated and softened, the mother's tender words of admonition dropped like dew into Sophy's heart. Long and earnestly they talked, not only then, but often again, and these talks were beneficial to them both. Insensibly the perverse, rebellious sense of opposition to the Divine will, which had taken possession of the young girl, began to melt away. Her sorrow was not removed, but it was a softer, holier sorrow than before. She learned to understand that an all-wise Providence could afflict without being cruel, and to find once more that consolation in prayer which had been so long denied her. And to her mother, this renewed bond of sympathy was an unspeakable comfort. In her failing health, Sophy was naturally her chief support. She was almost her only companion ; and now i that perfect confidence was restored to their i intercourse, she could lean upon her even more fully than before. A sense of mutual depen; deuce drew them closer together; though with the old, tender boud thus re-established, Mrs. ! May felt with even a keener pang man ueiore, [ the prospect of the separation, which she had reason to believe was near at hand. I The doctor gave no decided opinion in re. gard to her health, even to Mr. Erskine, whom r he knew to be a confidentkil frieud ; but one day he called Sophy aside, and said to her? t "Miss May, I want to give you a little bit of I advice about your mother. Do you ever take her out of doors, or read entertaining stories 3 to her, or anything of that sort, to divert her mind ?" J ; "She won't go out, Doctor," replied Sophy ; . "and she does not care for any books, except ? of a religious kind." "I thought so. Now, you see, her mind, *? quite as much as her body, needs stimulating. It's that which has pulled her back so badly, all this time. She thinks, too, that she is going to die ; and for that very reason it will be difficult to cure her. But she may yet be cured, if you will only co-operate with me. I count a great deal upon your assistance." "I will do all that I can, if you will only tell me how." "Well, persuade her to take a little exercise. She is quite equal to it, though she believes the contrary. Don't confine your reading to re. ligious subjects alone. Try something else, of a sober sort if you will, but still with a tonch of life and variety about it; travels are a very good resource. And above all?though, being such a good daughter, I need not tell you this? don't oppose her in any wish or fancy she may entertain, except such as are contrary to my prescriptions. She is very weak, and needs indulgence; contradiction, opposition, cannot fail to have a bad effect." "T nmior nniwoo lior " QQ ir? Snnhv rfttllfll" JL UC/Vgi liv&j N'VJ'mj J surprised. "Very well; take care that you don't," were his concluding words. [to be continued.] Reading. THE PIANO IN THE MINING CAMP. It was Christmas eve in a California mining town m 1858, and Goskin, according to his custom, had decorated his gambling house with sprigs of mountain cedar, and a shrub whose crimson berries did not seem a bad imitation of English holly. The piano was covered with evergreens, and all that was wanting to completely fill the cup of Goskin's contentment was a man to play that piano. "Christinas night and no piano pounder," he said. "This is a nice country for a Christian to live in." Getting a piece of paper he scrawled the words: "8100 Reward To a compitant Piauer Player." This he stuck upon the music rack, and, though the inscription glared at the frequenters of the room until midnight, it failed to draw any musician from the shell. So the merry making went on; the hilarity grew apace. Men danced and sang to the music of the squeaky fiddle and worn out guitar, as the jolly crowd within tried to drown the howling of the storm without. Suddenly they be ??mmaoam/IA i\f 4i Tirlnfn.lioi rof] 1 CciLilC ttWiUt/ UJL 1/IiC ^ICO^UV/C v/i. u mitw-ijuiavu man crouching near the fire-place. His garments, such as were left, were wet with melting snow and he had a half-starved, halfcrazed expression. He held his thin, trembling hands towards the fire, and the light of the blazing wood made them almost transparent. He looked about him once in a while, as if in search of something, and his presence cast such a chill over the place that gradually the sound of revelry was hushed, and it seemed that this waif of the storm had brought in with it all the gloom and coldness of the warring elements. Goskin, mixing up a cup of hot egg-nog, advanced and remarked, cheerily: "Here, stranger, brace up! This is the real stuff." The man drained the cup, smacked his lips, and seemed more at home. "Been prospecting, eh ? Out in the mountains?caught in the storm? Lively night, this!? "Pretty bad," said the man. "Must feel pretty dry ?" The man looked at his streaming clothes and laughed, as if Goskin's remark was a sarcasm. "How long out?" "Four days." "Hungry ?" The man rose up, and walking over to the lunch counter, fell to work on roast hear, devouring it like any wild animal would have done. As meat and drink and warmth began to permeate the stranger, he seemed to expand and brighten up. His features lost their pallor, and he grew more and more content with the idea that he was not in the grave. As he underwent these changes the people about him got merrier and happier, and threw off the temporary feeling of depression which had laid upon them. Presently his eye fell upon the piano. "Where's the player ?" he asked. "Never had any," said Goskin, blushing at the confession. "I used to play when I was young." Goskin almost fainted at the admission. "Stranger, do tackle it, and give us a tune. Narry man in this camp ever had the nerve to wrestle with that music box." His pulse beat faster, for he feared that the man would refuse. "I'll do the best I can," he said." There was no stool, but seizing a candlebox, he drew it up and seated himself before the instrument. It only required a few seconds for a hush to come over the room. "That old coon is going to give the thing a rattle." The sight of a man at the piano was something so unusual that even the faro-dealer, who was about to take in a $50 bet on the tray, paused and did not reach for the money. Men stopped drinking with the glasses at their lips. Conversation appeared to have been struck with a sort of paralysis, and cards were no longer shuffled. The old man brushed back his long, white locks, looked up to the ceiling, half closed hip eyes, and in a mystic sort of reverie passed his fingers over the keys. He touched but a single note, yet the sound thrilled the room. It was the key to his improvisation, and as he wove his chords together the music laid its spell upon every ear and heart. He felt his way along the keys, like a man treading uncertain paths; but he gained confidence as he progressed ; and presently bent to his work like a master. The instrunent was not in exact tune, but the ears of his audience, through long disuse, did not detect anything radically wrong. They heard a succession of grand chords, a suggestion of paradise, melodies here and there, and it was enough. "See him counter with his left!" said an old rough, enraptured. "He calls the turn every time on the upper end of the board," responded a man with a stack of chips in his hand. The player wandered in the old ballads he had heard at home. All the sad and melancholy and touching songs, that came up like dreams of childhood, this unknown player drew from the keys. His hands kneaded their hearts like dough, and squeezed out tears as from a wet sponge, ivs tne statins nu?cu upon tlie other, they saw their homes of the long ago reared again; they were playing once more where the apple blossoms sank through the soft air to join the violets 011 the green turf of the old New England States; they saw the glories of the Wisconsin maples and the haze of the Indian Summer blending their hues together; they saw the heather of the Scottish hills, the white cliffs of Briton, and heard the sullen roar of tlie sea as it beat upon their memories vaguely. Then came all the old Christmas carols they had sung in the church thirty years liefore; the subtle music that brings up the glimmer of tlie wax taper, the solemn shrines, the evergreen, holly, mistletoe, and surpliced choirs. Then the remorseless performer planted his stab in every heart with "Home, Sweet Home." When the player ceased, the crowd slunk away from him. There was 110 more revelry left in his audience. Each man wanted to sneak off to his cabin and write the old folks a letter. The day was breaking as the last man left the place, and the player, laying his head down on the piano, fell asleep. "I say, pard,"saidGoskin, "don't you want a little rest ?" "I feel tired," the old man said. "Perhaps you'll let me rest here for the matter of a day or so." He walked behind the bar, where some old blankets were lying, and stretched himseli upon them. "I feel pretty sick. I guess I won't lasl long. I've got a brother down the ravine?his name's Driscoll. He don't know I'm here. Can you get him before morning ? I'd like t< see his face once more before I die." Goskin started up at the mention of tin name. He knew Driscoll well. "He your orotner t i'ii nave mm nm m half an hour." As he (lashed out into the storm the musician pressed his hand to his side and groaned. Goskin heard the word "Hurry 1" and sped down the ravine to Driscoll's cabin. It was quite light in the room when the two men returned. Driscoll was as pale as death. "My God! I hope he's alive ! I wronged him when we lived in England, twenty years ago." They saw the old man had drawn the blankets over his face. The two stood a moment awed by the thought that he might be dead. Goskin lifted the blanket and pulled it down, astonished. There was no one there! "Gone I" cried Driscoll, wildly. "Gone !" echoed Goskin, pulling out his cash drawer. "Ten thousand dollars in the sack, and the Lord knows how much loose change in the drawer." The next day the boys got out, followed a horse's tracks through the snow, and lost them in the trail leading toward Pioche. There was a man missing from the camp. It was the three-card monte man, who used to deny point blank that he could play the scale. One day I thev found a wicr of white hair, and called to mind when the "stranger" had pushed those iocks buck when he had looked toward the ceiling for inspiration, on the night of December 24, 1858. SOUTHFUN RESOURCES. At the session of the National Agricultural Convention held in New York city last Thursday, among the speakers was Director-General Kimball of the Atlanta Cotton Exposition, who paid a glowing tribute to the South, in a paper which he read on the results of the great exhibition. He said: In my most sanguine moments, I had not dreamed of such a grand composite display of every Southern industry and resource?ores, minerals and woods?which, in their audacity, the directors, building wiser than they knew, had accumulated in this great exhibition of purely American industry as had never before been collected. Fifteen years had elapsed since the old labor system had been killed. The former masters had neither money nor credit and the former slaves were intoxicated with the first draught of liberty. It was the . old story over again of the bow that had been so long bent as to lose its elasticity ; but the essential elements of true manhood which during those four years of strife &nd bloodshed the Southern people had so fully demonstrated [applause] still remained, and, gathering up the broken threads* of her former pros|>erity, the South wove them into the complete garment which she so lately spread out at Atlanta. [Applause.] He was a Yankee, born in Maine?a Republican and a prohibitionist?but, feeling tliat the South was the natural home of enterprise, he had builded there. He had f)i? atnxrpsnf reconstruc ilVCU bilCLGllllVU^u (?U f tion and had never suffered the slightest ostracism, and he knew that ltereafter sectional strife was done. The next great result was the wonderful sale of Northern implements and labor-saving contrivances among the Southern planters. The sale of manure spreaders amounted to over $36,000. Fifteen hundred cotton planters, 200 new pattern carriages, 500 car loads, of eugines, ploughs, harrowB, cultivators and other machines have up to date been sold in the South since the Expositson. Iu conclusion he said : "We want men and women of brains who are not afraid of work. We liave discarded sentiment and turned all our energies toward practical things. There is room for all, a hearty welcome for all, and fortune for all who will come and settle in the young Sooth." [Great applause.] General Tremain moved a vote of thanlcs, which was seconded by Mr. Francis I). Moulton, who said he had been a delegate to the Atlanta Exhibition, and where he thought to find hostility he had found a hearty welcome. The motion was unanimously carried. Outward Signs of Character.?The eyes are wonderful interpreters of character. Round-eyed people live much in the senses, but think less. Narrow-eyed persons, on the other hand, see less, but think more and feel more intensely. It will be observed that the eyes of children are open and round. Their whole life is to receive impressions. When the upper eyelid?for it is that which has the greatest degree of mobility?droops over the eye, it indicates not merely reflection but something painful to reflect about. Hence the length or drooping of the upper eyelid betokens confes "? Jmnninff nf tl)P hfllf Sion ana penitence, a no uiw^uig ? of the eyelid from the outer angle to the centre indicates the disposition to confess one's faults to parents or seniors, to a "father confessor," or to the Supreme Being. The drooping of the half of the eyelid from the inner angle to the centre betokens the disposition to repent and to "do works meet for repentauce." Closely allied to these signs are those of prayerfulness and humility. The former is indicated by the muscle which turns the eye directly downward, as represented in the pictures of the Madonna. The faculty of truth, or love of it, is indicated by the muscle which surrounds the eye, causing folds^nd wrinkles. Justice is indicated by the muscle which causes perpendicular wrinkles between the eyebrows. Fulness and wrinkles under the eye, for which some persons are remarkable, indicate the love of mathematical accuracy; and wrinkles curving upward from the outer angle of the eye and eyebrow indicate probity or personal truthfulness. A kind of exactness of strict honesty in small money matters is indicated by a single perpendicular wrinkle or line between the eyebrows. The love of command is indicated by one or more short transverse wrinkles across the root I of the nose, exactly between the eyes. It may be seen in great military commanders, in masters and teachers, and in those generally who are fond of exercising authority. Destruction of a Historical House.? The Murat Mansion of Tallahassee, that was burned on the evening of January 2(5, was one of the historic houses of America. Prince Achille Murat, son of the King of Naples, lived there when Napoleonic misfortunes exiled the family from Europe. A price having been set upon his head, he lived like a hermit upon this plantation, then on the edge of the primeval forest. Here he met a relative of General Washington, who, with her father, had emigrated from Virginia. She was a charming young widow, less than twenty years of age, and she lived in a log cabin with but two rooms. The consent of the Murat family having been obtained, the young widow was married to Prince Murat, and they lived tofether in Tallahassee for twenty-five years, luring the Florida war the Murats were protected by the friendship of an Indian chief, who came at night and slept beneath their roof. He quieted their fears by saying "You and your squaw safe." After Prince Murat's death his widow visited England and was received by Napoleon III. and Eugenie. She returned to her Southern home and died there. During the war she was much interested in hospital work, and sold some of her jewels to feed the destitute. Poor Girls.?The poorest girls in the world are those who have never been taught to work. There are thousands of them, ltich parents have petted them ; they have been taught to despise labor, and depend upon others for a living, and are perfectly helpless. If misfortune comes upon their friends, as it often does, their case is hopeless. The most forlorn and miserable women 011 earth belong to this class. It belongs to parents to protect their daughters from this deplorable condition. They do them a great wrong if they neglect it. Every daughter should be taught to earn her own living. The rich jvs well as the poor require this trail ing. Tire wheel of fortune rolls swiftly round?the rich are very likely to become i>oor, and the poor rich. Skill to labor is 110 disad- ' 1 vantage to the rich, and is indispensable to the poor. Well-to-do parents must educate their daughters to work ; no reform is more imperL ative than this. ?y A husband who lately went to execute a G few little commissions for his wife, gives it jus j his experience, that there are at least two dozen different brands of lilac sewing silk so ) exactly alike that no male eye can tell the difference, and a wrong choice means ruin to a i new silk dress and 110 pie in the house, for a week.